


Bury My Old Soul, and Dance on its Grave

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Antichrist!Sam, Boy King!Sam, Community: sammessiah, Consort!Dean, Hell, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-02
Updated: 2011-05-02
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows how far he can push Sam. (For Antichristmas 2011)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury My Old Soul, and Dance on its Grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ennyousai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennyousai/gifts).



The world above is in ruins.

Dean knows this, because he's been there. There's more than one open gateway between Hell and Earth these days, and while they stand guarded by imposing sentries—sentries intended to keep humans and demons alike from wandering where they're not supposed to go—Dean is exempt from such limitations.

He can come and go freely. Sam knows better than to try and corral his movements.

The world is in ruins, but the people are still alive. Dean knows Sam is to thank for that, even if he's (at least in part) simultaneously to blame. There are survivors. Enough to rebuild. The process is slow. The Apocalypse devastated every city, every government, every piece of technology. The human race is scattered and ragged across the surface of the globe.

But they're alive. And slowly—as the years turn into decades—they're putting together a new world. Communities, new technology, a different civilization crafted amidst the ruins of the one that's gone.

Dean likes to visit now and then. Discreetly. Anonymously. He likes to emerge with his face hidden so that no one can recognize him—so that no one can wonder why, as the decades pass, Dean hasn't changed. They might take offense at his presence if they knew he wasn't quite human anymore.

They might just as soon stab him through the heart as let him wander past if they discover he's not just another survivor, but rather the consort to the King of Hell.

But Dean watches them just the same. He wanders among them, he reminds himself the price paid is ultimately worth it, and then he returns the way he came.

He always goes back.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Hell is a vast, magnificent kingdom compared to the world above.

Dean was slow to admit it—Hell was never his ideal tourist destination, and his first visit is a time he prefers not to think about—but on this side of the walls, Hell is beautiful to behold. Once you get outside the torture chambers and get a glimpse of the palace, the land, the sweeping red mountains along the horizon… Hell is stunning.

Dean has his suspicions that the aesthetics are Sam's doing. He remembers the way demons described Hell, back when he and Sam were more human than not and spent their days hunting and driving along roads that have since crumbled to ash.

He remembers Sam's voice—though it wasn't Sam speaking—painting a vivid, horrible landscape. Flesh and blood and bone. A prison.

But Hell is different now. Sam made it so. Maybe he did it for Dean.

If that's the case, Dean knows enough to be grateful.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

One of Hell's primary tenets is "Look but don't touch." Dean is accustomed to moving through the corridors of Sam's palace and having demons and lowlier minions scurry out of his path.

The response isn't as paranoid as it sounds.

Depending on Sam's mood, an accidental brush against Dean's shoulder could land even an important general an eternity in the deepest Pit. Or worse. It took almost a month for a team of servants to clean up the mess after the last time someone who wasn't Sam touched Dean.

Dean's got a stronger stomach these days, but he remembers Sam's instant violence leaving him queasy at the time. He remembers running the opposite direction and emptying his stomach. He remembers Sam coming to him after, torn between dark wrath and puppy-eyed apology.

It wasn't Dean that Sam's wrath was aimed at. It's never Dean. And Sam apologized, voice thick and heavy as he said, "You shouldn't have had to see that."

Dean's the only one Sam ever apologizes to.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

It's been decades since that incident. Maybe longer. Could be centuries for all Dean knows. Time passes differently in Hell.

It's been long enough that Dean has left most of his own humanity by the wayside. He's not a demon. Not precisely. He's just different. Hell has changed him. _Sam_ has changed him. Every time Sam touches him, Dean comes a little closer to… something. He's not entirely sure what. When he looks in the mirror lately, the green of his eyes glows brighter than it should. Even in the dark, he can see his own face reflected in the glass.

His eyes will never be gold like Sam's, but they'll never look human again either.

Dean finds himself unbothered by the change.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Some demons are more malicious than others, Dean has discovered.

There are plenty that have adapted just fine to Sam's more peaceable rule of Hell. They handed over their torture implements and settled in to more productive tasks. Building up instead of tearing down. Perhaps they're simply souls that weren't as far gone when Sam came to power.

But there are others. There are demons tarnished by evil, twisted and wrong, who obviously yearn for the Good Old Days. Dean recognizes them by the sneers of hate in their eyes. He recognizes the way they look at _him_ , like they're fantasizing about what it would be like to get their hands on him. Like they know just how pretty he can be when he screams.

Dean's not scared of those particular monsters. Sam is more than powerful enough to keep them under control. Hell, Dean himself might be powerful enough at this point. Sam winds himself more and more tightly into Dean's soul with every passing day, and Dean thinks by now he might be strong enough to crush one of those bastards in a fight if he had to.

But he won't have to. He'll never have to test his theory. Not with Sam watching his back.

Plus, Dean has a plan. And by the time he's done, none of those particular demons will be left standing.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Baal is first on his list.

Baal favors pretty faces and tall bodies for his wardrobe, and the form he's wearing now—not a human host, thanks to Sam's decrees, but a plausible approximation crafted of flesh and illusion—is an appealing one. Male. Strong and smooth, standing several inches taller than Dean.

He's been looking at Dean harder than he should lately. Looking with a dangerous glint and a hint of rebellion in his eyes. Which puts him right where Dean needs him.

"A picture might not last longer, but it would be a hell of a lot more convenient," Dean says after ten minutes of sharp scrutiny.

He's standing at a broad stone window overlooking the south wall of the palace. It's dark out, but the clouds crackle red with power. Nighttime. Baal stands a respectful distance down the corridor, but there's nothing respectful in the way he's been watching Dean. Dean feels a smile of vicious anticipation quirk at the corner of his mouth, and he quickly suppresses the expression.

He leans back without crossing his arms, half perching on the windowsill and curling his fingers over the stone on either side. He keeps his posture open. Unthreatening. He splays his legs just enough to look inviting without flashing the invitation so blatantly that his target senses the trap.

Baal approaches with a cautious smirk.

"A picture would not hold half the fascination," Baal says smoothly. "Or half the… potential."

Dean cocks his head to the side. Pretends to consider the words with reluctant curiosity.

"You see potential when you look at me?"

"Certainly," says Baal, taking a step closer. He's still not near enough to violate propriety. He will be soon enough.

"Potential for what?" Dean asks. He keeps his face innocent. His eyes wide. He watches Baal with his most guileless expression.

"Oh," Baal murmurs, his voice an appreciative purr. "Oh, you _are_ a dangerous specimen. You have temptation carved into your bones, don't you?"

Dean shifts his expression to one of dawning concern. He doesn't change his posture, but he feigns a convincing approximation of fear.

"I don't think you should be talking like that," Dean says. "Sam might—"

"Sam's not here," Baal points out almost conversationally. "It's just you and me, little one. And after all, this is just a conversation. What harm is there in talk?"

Plenty, Dean thinks, and he knows this will be even easier than he thought.

"None," he concedes. He straightens slightly, but doesn't move away from the window. Baal moves a step closer, and _now_ they're getting somewhere. He's close enough to touch now, and Dean lets his eyes drop deliberately to Baal's mouth—thin lips, perfect teeth, muted sneer—before jerking them back up to Baal's eyes as though afraid of being caught out.

Predatory heat flashes in Baal's gaze, proving he caught everything Dean intended him to.

"Tell me more," Dean whispers. Baal moves in closer still, and now there's no mistaking his intentions.

Dean reaches out with his thoughts—his soul—and finds the glowing thread of power that connects him to his brother.

' _Sam_ ,' he calls. He doesn't try to sound urgent. Sam will come to him regardless.

Baal is laughing now, quiet huffs of sound as he leans into Dean's space without touching.

"You are trouble in the making," Baal murmurs. "Like I said. Temptation. The things I would do with a Consort like you…"

There's promise in the words. There's violence and lust and ragged, vicious want.

"You shouldn't talk like that," Dean says darkly. "If Sam hears you, you're dead. Or worse."

"Then I suppose I'd better keep my voice down," Baal whispers, and touches Dean's face.

"Take your hands off him and back the fuck away."

Sam's voice echoes from the end of the hall. Shadows and raw power filter along the floor, towards Dean and his unwitting target. Electricity and the rattle of thunder shiver through the walls.

Outside, the sky goes dark.

Baal's eyes go wide and he stares down at Dean. Shocked betrayal is etched across his features. He knows he's been set up.

Dean resists the urge to smile as Baal takes several quick, smooth steps out of his space.

"Dean," Sam says. The syllable is distorted with possessive rage. "I want you to go to our rooms and wait for me."

"You got it, Sammy," Dean says. He keeps his own voice quiet and beats a hasty retreat.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"How's Baal?" Dean asks when Sam steps through the door and into the sprawling suite the two of them share.

"Gone," Sam says. "He won't bother you again."

Sam's clothing is spotless. There's no blood staining his shirt or splattered across his face. There's no visual evidence of the violence Dean knows his brother just finished wreaking.

"I think I could've handled him," Dean says. Sam makes an unhappy sound low in his throat, and that's all the warning Dean gets.

He's pinned to the floor in the next instant, back protesting the impact and head spinning at the sudden drop. Sam's weight is heavy on top of him, welcome and familiar, and Dean immediately spreads his legs wider, making space for Sam to slot against him, fabric rustling between them as Sam settles in place.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks, a little breathless. Sam has barely touched him and yet Dean's dick is already starting to take an interest in the proceedings. His skin feels flushed with greedy anticipation.

He loves Sam—he _always_ loves Sam—and he marvels, sometimes, at how gentle Sam can be despite the darkness twisting beneath his skin. But moments like this are Dean's favorite. Moments when he can see the territorial fire smoldering in his brother's eyes. When he knows Sam is about to lay rough, unmistakable claim.

There will be nothing gentle about the way Sam touches him tonight.

Sam growls instead of answering Dean's question, and then his mouth is at Dean's throat. His lips are warm, breath heating Dean's skin, and then Sam's teeth close on the sensitive flesh beneath Dean's jaw. Dean gasps, back arching as he throws his head back—instant submission, as Sam's hands fall to restlessly touching him everywhere.

Then Sam's mouth is gone and he's nuzzling at Dean's jaw, brushing his lips past Dean's ear.

"Who do you belong to?" Sam hisses, yanking at Dean's shirt and tearing the fabric, scattering the buttons, getting his palms on Dean's skin.

"You, Sammy," Dean breathes, threading his fingers through Sam's hair and guiding him into a kiss. Sam accepts the kiss, turns it into something deep and rough, and when he pulls back Dean says, "No one but you."

" _Mine_ ," Sam agrees, and destroys Dean's pants as quickly as he ruined the shirt.

Dean cries out when Sam enters him, gasping pleasure into the air. Sam pins him to the floor, hands leaving bruises on Dean's hips, mouth biting marks into Dean's skin everywhere he can reach. Dean wraps his legs around Sam's waist and rocks forward—urges Sam deeper with every movement of his body—and Sam drives into him harder, faster, desperation guiding his pace.

Dean feels open, and owned, and he cries out again when Sam's orgasm finally crests and pulls them both over the edge.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"Those were my favorite pants," Dean gripes as he pulls on a fresh (intact) pair of jeans four hours later.

"Maybe you should have thought of that _before_ you went demon-goading," Sam retorts. His tone is calm, but Dean snaps instantly to attention anyway. He's surprised at the quiet comprehension he finds on his brother's face.

"Didn't think I was that transparent," Dean admits sheepishly. There's no point denying Sam's accusation.

"Dean," Sam says. There's warning in his eyes, but also unmasked fondness as he crosses the room and sets his hands meaningfully at Dean's waist. "If you wanted me to kill Baal you could have just said so."

"Where's the challenge in that?" Dean teases. But when Sam's expression doesn't lighten—if anything it gets darker—Dean lets his own face fall somber and says, "I didn't think you'd be all about offing one of your top generals just because he gives me the wigs."

"I would do anything for you," Sam says. The words echo heavy with promise. " _Anything_ , Dean. Have you really not figured that out by now?"

"I think I'm starting to get the picture," says Dean, and pulls his brother into a kiss.

\- — - — fin — - — -


End file.
